Blessed
by Slea
Summary: Arthur reflects on his knights and there beginnings. AU... My interperatation of what might have happened
1. Chapter 1

**Blessed **

King Arthur

Cyndi Smith

**Chapter 1**

With both swords in his hands, Lancelot danced with the grace that could only be of God. Yet, he did not know he was blessed. His eyes held the fire of the avenging angels and his blades were the harbingers of death. Arthur glanced from his own fight to look back at his knights. They all held special places in his heart and prayers. And for the past 8 years he has watched them grow from boys to men and they each, in their own way, built him into the man he was. But of all them, Lancelot had become more than a soldier, he had become his brother. At first they followed Arthur because Rome commanded it, and truth be told, they still commanded it. But now they would follow him into hell with no complaint, assured by a promise that one day he would see them free and home, safe.

They all were but children when they came to Britain. Arthur's mother was British and his father was one of the many Roman conquerors who protected the lands of Rome. Born Arturious Castus, he was orphaned by the war-torn world around him. Eventually he was taken back to Rome to be trained as a soldier by his father's dearest friend, and when he, too, was killed, it seemed his destiny was sealed.

The others, such as Lancelot and those that came with him and his people, were stolen from their families to become knights and guardians because of a covenant between their families and Rome. The Sarmatian, a noble people and warriors by birth, had fought bravely against the Romans. Despite their defeat, Rome rewarded them for their bravery. They were allowed to live with the purpose to father more warriors for service to the Empire. A covenant that their children and their children's children held fast to, with strength of honor stronger than most men could bear. All this for a world they cared nothing about and in truth cared nothing for them.

Lancelot accepted no false beliefs that this was anything more than a duty. He held nothing back when it came to training or truth; for the truth was, they did not wish to be here. It was their duty and as such he would give them all he had with all the might of any one of the best trained soldiers of Rome. This strength of heart brought the young Sarmatian to the front of his kind, and though he was neither youngest nor oldest among the boys, he was the one they looked to. He was their strength, maybe even their heart, and they would follow him through hell.

For the first year they were trained and beaten but never were they broken. Trained with swords made of wood and shields made of leather, they were often pitted against one another for the sport of their keepers. Though they were to become Arthur's knights, he, too, was still in training, so he had little say in how they were treated. By the second year

Arthur had chosen a small troop of 15 young men. The training still continued but he could arm them with real weapons and take them with him on minor missions. Once returned to the fold, they would again be disarmed and given the wooden swords and harsh task masters. Arthur built his army from the best of those who survived. This is why the first of his chosen was Lancelot, a child of 15 at the time. Yes, he was smart and quick, but Arthur knew by making this choice he could pull over many of the other Sarmatian even if he did not, at the time, understand why.

The curly haired boy, although gangly and fragile by the looks of him, was strong in many of the skills that were part of their training. He took as easily to the books as he did to his sword and bow. He was a quick study and a hard worker. But what made him a necessity to Arthur was his way with the men and the horses. Arthur believed there were two ideas necessary to be the best. The first was that all men must feel as if they are one unit equal in the eyes of God. The second is that his knights would be horsemen, a cavalry not unlike those honorable forefathers of his Sarmatian recruits.

Still, these boys were raw and a bit wild. Lancelot was no different. On occasion they were even rebellious but they never once made an attempt to leave. For 15 years they were the property of the Empire of Rome, as deeded by their great, great, great grandfathers. They would train, they would fight or they would die in the name of duty, all the time, turning to a young Lancelot for verification that what they were doing was the right thing. It did not take long for the centurion forces to see who was in charge.

There were many that considered this training of Sarmatian knights as giving a sword to your enemies and being foolish enough to trust them to protect you while you slept. This created much of the tension between the training knights and the Romans. Often, if they did not do as they were told, the trainers would take it out on Lancelot, not that he had done anything wrong, but because the others seemed to take notice whenever the youth spoke or even gestured. Never did he complain or rebel against the punishment; instead he just stared at his persecutors as the lash was struck to his back. Arthur was never able to stop these unjust punishments, though he tried. Lancelot seemed to just accept it. He would not scream out in pain, though it hurt him greatly.

Once Arthur asked the boy; why he would allow himself to be punished in the others' stead? The young boy just smiled, if that is what you could call it. It was more like a reflective look, and he said, "One day I shall be a knight, and then no man will dare to tarnish his whip or blade with my blood, lest he wishes to find his God."

This went on for many months but never did he falter. No, he bit back his screams and confronted his tormentors until the centurions no longer found pleasure in his pain. Arthur found it odd that he would learn such a valuable clue to leadership within this pagan boy.

It was not long before they reached Hadrian's Wall that Lancelot was struck for the last time. Arthur would never forget that day because he truly thought that it would be the lad's last. He and others watched as the young Sarmatian was strung between two posts in the middle of the field alongside of the largest of the Sarmatian boys, Dagonet.

Dagonet, still in his teens, was blessed with an uncommon strength of body and character. Larger and stronger than many of his trainers, he saw little use for unprovoked violence. He would train as instructed, for survival, but saw little to no use in sparring against one of his own ken if it meant injuring him.

Arthur could only assume that it made his Roman brethren less than tolerant, so he, too, was pushed to his limits. For the most part he would do their will, with little resistance and be on his way, but not this day. Arthur supposed every man had his breaking point and for Dagonet this day was his. A few drunken centurions attempted to force him to fight a smaller recruit. It was not an unusual request; most of the recruits were smaller than he was. The difference was this was not to be just a practice fight; he was to fight to the death, not unlike the gladiator spectacles of their homelands.

Lancelot had walked away from his own trainer. With his arms crossed and his practice sword still strapped to his side, he pushed his way to the front of the large circle of men that made the Arena. Arthur, too, had forced his way to the front, angry but unsure what his options were, for these fools were his superior officers. For now, he could only glare at the moderator.

Intimidated, the smaller, newer recruit took up the sword and rushed the large man, only to be swatted away like a bothersome gnat. Much to the dismay of the growing crowd of soldiers, Dag refused to fight. This obstinacy got him lashed as he again pushed away the young boy.

Arthur saw the moment Lancelot could remain quiet no more. Oddly enough, the expression did not harbor a notable change unless you managed to glimpse into his eyes; they appeared as if the fires of hell burned in them. He then stepped into the ring and flung the smaller boy to the ground taking away the weapon and stabbing it into the dirt.

"Only a fool would waste his supplies in the dead of winter," the dark-haired boy announced to Arthur. Oddly enough, Arthur knew what he meant: should one of his men die in that match he lost a good man for no reason.

The trainer was not so quick. "Do you call me a fool, Sarmatian?" growled the Roman.

The 15-year-old Lancelot smiled and his eyes showed no fear as he announced loudly, "No!" He turned to Arthur and pointed, saying, "I call him a fool. After all, he is our leader. You, you are not bright enough to be considered a fool." The angry expression in the boy's eyes never changed.

The comment got a rise out of those who had gathered around, including the other Romans. The stocky roman did not take kindly to being laughed at. He stepped forward and snatched Lancelot by his curly, black locks but before anyone could stop him, Dagonet slammed the centurion to the ground, cracking the officer's thick skull as it hit the hard, dry dirt. Three soldiers wrestled the big Sarmatian to the ground and one held the small, dark haired leader as they beat and dragged him over to the training posts that were staked out in the field.

"What are you doing" Arthur cried out, only to be held back by another officer from the group. Both men were chained to opposing posts by their arms, their weapons and tunics ripped from them as soldiers swarmed at them with whips and chains.

After the initial shock had worn off, Arthur gathered his other men and boys, as well as some of the new recruits that had just come in. He quickly ordered them to take their training weapons and shields and build a wall, or tortoise, to protect their two comrades. Together they managed to defeat the older men and circle the wounded two boys, holding the trainers and guards at bay.

The tussle finally ended when the captain of the guard screamed out,

"HOLD! HOLD!"

"What is going on here?" yelled the Commander, as he and others stormed the field.

Arthur stepped forward with a look that almost stopped him in his tracks. "These fools are killing my men. Since when does Rome train their knights by beating them to death or having them beat each other to the death?"

It was clear that Arthur has was thought well of within the walls because the commander was quick to side in his favor. He looked over at the older men being held at bay by wooden swords and spears. The wall of shields held well against the chains and whips. The boys would not have been so lucky had the angry mob chosen to loose their swords against it.

Much to the Commander's distaste, it took Arthur's orders to lower the wall and make a path to those being protected within it. Arthur snatched the keys from the unconscious officer that started the ruckus and ran within the walls of men to those inside it. Dagonet had already broken free from his chains and was breaking the chain from Lancelot wrists when he got there. The smaller form lay crumpled like a rag doll on the ground bleeding and bruised about his back, arms, legs and head. His shoulders both appeared to have been dislocated in the fray. Dagonet growled as Arthur came within range and he pulled the unconscious Lancelot closer to him. "If he dies, you die!" the large boy cried out.

"Then it would be to my advantage if you let me see to his wounds. Take him to my tent," he whispered. He then turned to the others who still surrounded them and pointed to two, Tristan and Bors, who were friends of the young Sarmatian and members of Arthur's chosen force. "You and you, go with him. Send for a healer to come quick. Also see that a fire is started in the hearth to keep him warm. I will be right behind you after I settle this."

The small Lancelot looked very much like a child in the large arms of

Dagonet, who walked carefully towards the officer's tent. Arthur saw him safely to his lair before he turned to the Commander. Walking up to him and giving a proper salute, he announced, "From this day on, I take Command of my men. I will see to their training and I will see to their punishments. All who have fought with me this day will become part of my team. The Command was to become mine at the wall, anyway. I doubt one day more or less would make a difference."

The Commander looked around him. Nearly 50 young boys under the direction of his young lieutenant had taken his force of 20 large, well armed and well trained soldiers and stayed them off with no more then practice swords and shields. Five men and what appeared to be 20 other boys lay dead or wounded, three of which were centurian.

"I agree that you are ready for your men, and it is possible that your men are ready to be placed under your command," the Commander growled, returning the glare that stemmed from the wall of men yet to break away from punishment grounds. "But someone must pay for what has been done to the centurions. As the Sarmatian's Commander, I will leave it up to you to decide who will be punished."

"It was not my men who incited this travesty," Arthur objected.

"It doesn't really matter who incited it… all that matters is that the Romans are avenged. We can not allow young pagan pups such as these get away with such mutinous actions now, can we?" he explained calmly. "It would only incite more disobedience, and how would it look to your other charge…to Rome?"

"If you see fit to punish my men for protecting their own, then it will be I who will bear that punishment. The centurions found sport in beating unarmed boys chained to posts. It is very possible I am to lose one of my best knights because of their folly, but if you wish to see more blood, then I only beg one favor. Allow me three days to tend to my knight. In three days time I will face any man you wish on the field of valor. By that time I will know if I am to punish them or kill them."

"So be it. In three days on the training grounds you will fight three of my choosing, One for every dead centurion on this field." With that, the Commander turned and the troops followed. The young trainees walked past him to return to their quarters, some even touched his shoulder as a sign of approval as they passed. Soon the field was empty by all but him and one of the young knights he had sent off with Lancelot.

"What news have you?" Arthur inquired.

Tristan stared unblinking, as if he were looking in to his soul, for what seemed forever.

"Lancelot was right, you are a fool. You cannot lead us from the bowels of hell. Nor can you right the wrong that has been done by others."

Arthur sighed and looked off into the woods that lay just out side the fence of the grounds. "Aye, I suppose you both are right, I am a fool and I can not make those things others did right, But…" he said as he turned to meet Tristan's eyes dead on.

"I can make it known by God and all that is right, that NO man will seek harm to one of MY knights and expect it to go unpunished. This I do swear."

"I do not know your God," Tristan answered, "but I do know what is right."

With a whistle he called a hawk from the forest it flew past the fence and landed lightly on Tristan's arm. "Man, like nature was meant to be free. I believe that if you do not succeed then we will never have our freedom. So for now, I will follow you. But you should know this as well: If Lancelot dies; body or soul, there will not be a Roman safe as long as one of his brethren lives. This, I too, do swear."

No further conversation was held as Tristan walked back with his commander to Arthur's tent.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Tristan and Arthur entered the tent. A young woman not known to Arthur sat in the room. Her hair matted, her skin ghostly pale, she was more than likely one of the slaves captured from one of the many Roman raids made along their way to this land. Her clothes were dirty and wet but her eyes looked as if they might hold the secrets of the world locked beneath the ocean of blue. He was unsure she was even old enough to be of any help in saving his knight.

"Girl, you are the healer they sent?"

She looked up to give a quick glance around the room, and then replied,

"I see no other." She was next to the bed grinding herbs into a bowl.

"You are not Roman," he stated, not total unsurprised that they would not waste their own healers to save a trainee when so many of their own were wounded in the melee.

"Aye, and neither is he, I would wager," she said, looking down at the boy that lay before her. "Neither of us was given a choice to be here, but we must make the most of it until the time comes," she prophesied, adding, "and the time will come."

She gave a few minutes for her words to sink in and then she changed the subject. "Come, we must force his shoulders back into the place of nature or if he lives, he will be crippled. One misshapen arm is bad, but two would no doubt destroy his spirit if he lives long enough to notice."

"What would you have us do?" Arthur inquired.

The girl looked about her at the available resources. "First, pull the bed towards the center of the room."

After they'd done so, she pointed to Tristan. "You, straddle him as if he were a horse and pull him up to you."

She pointed at Arthur, and instructed, "You, slide in behind him, you must pin him strongly between the two of you." She then looked over at Dagonet and Bors. "Both of you will then yank on either arm at my count. If the Gods be with us, his arms will snap back into place at the same time and will split his pain. And I assure you, there will be pain. Then I can tend these other wounds." All four men looked as if they were contemplating her words.

"If you continue to tarry, the joints will swell more and the bones will no longer fit." The words hit each of them as if they had been struck with a whip and they quickly fell into position. Tristan raised him up to a seated position by curling his arms under Lancelot's arms and up his back. Arthur then quickly slid behind the injured man and kneeled down on the bed pressing his body against his back as support. Bors and Dag took up position on either side of the bed.

"Now, you in front, take hold of his head," she ordered, "lest you both get your own skulls cracked in his trashing. You others will pull his arms out to his side, and on the count of three, pull for all you are worth until the arms pop themselves into the shoulder or I am able to guide them into place. Either way, neither of you can release the arm until I say so, and then you will lay it gently to his side. I will then tie his arms down and make him as immobile as possible."

Tristan braced Lancelot's head within his hands, looking at boy's face with great intensity. The girl slipped a dagger's sheath between the teeth of their unconscious comrade and began to count.

"Three!" Tristan heard the voice snap, totally unaware of any other words that had been said prior. He winced at the sound of two resounding pops and suddenly Lancelot's eyes flew open and his mouth clinched down on the leather sheath as a growl was heard from him, then nothing more. Tristan managed to hold Lancelot's gaze; never had he seen so much pain and anguish. And although it seemed like hours had passed, it was in fact only moments and the injured lad's eyes rolled back into his head as he lost his momentary grasp on consciousness.

Arthur and the healer worked together to tie the young man's arms to his body so he would not be able to further injure them. After that was completed she began to bandage the other wounds, including the one that currently held his black locks of hair into sticky mess at the back of his head.

"I do not feel any broken bone here," she whispered, gently fingering the skull beneath. "He may yet live to see another day... if all the other injuries or the fever, that will no doubt come, does not claim him."

She turned to the men as she packed up her herbs. "Do not leave him alone for the next rising and falling of the sun, and see that you coax water and maybe some broth down his throat. He cannot be moved in that time either, except to raise or lower him for nourishment. If he awakens, call me. If he doesn't, then I pray his god has greater plans for him in the next life." With that said, she turned to leave.

Arthur turned and quickly asked, "By what name do we call you when we send for you?"

The girl gave a small smile. This centurion was different then any of the others she had met. His faith alone might be enough to pull the young boy from the darkness. "I am called Gwennan."

After she left, Arthur sent Bors to fetch water and have broth made.

Words passed between Tristan and Dag. Their language was unknown to the Roman but he watched them closely and continued to listen. Moments later Dagonet sneered at Arthur and then left the room.

"I do not understand your language. What did you tell him to make him leave?"

"I told him to go see to his own injuries and eat. I will stay the night with the boy. He did not want to leave. So I reminded him that the Lady of the Lake would not have returned our friend to his father had he been destined to die a needless death."

"Who is the Lady of the Lake?" Arthur inquired.

"There is a tale of our people that the lake is guarded by a beautiful sorceress who lives beneath its waters. At one time before we were brought to the Wall, seven years this summer, we, Dag Bors, Lancelot and I, lived in the same village. One day while we were swimming, just children unaware of the world outside our meadows, Lancelot was taken below the water and never resurfaced. We all thought he had died. But his father, who would not give up hope, returned every day to the lake and prayed to the Lady of the Lake to return his son. His mother grieved openly for his loss, but on the sixth day when the father returned to the lake, he found Lancelot curled up in the same spot that his father had been praying, naked as the day he was born. It is said he was reborn to his father from the womb of the Sorceress, and true enough, there was something different about him. At first he seemed frightened and quiet; he would not do the things he did before. Then, after a while, I realized he spoke when he had reason, but listened always. His return is a blessing from the Lady of the Lake to our people. We will not let his life be wasted on some Roman foolery.

Arthur said nothing, but the darkness of his eyes and the arch of his brow spoke well of his confusion.

"Our beliefs are not for you to understand, Roman. We don't await your approval or disapproval. Just know that he is special amongst our tribe. He is considered blessed amongst us. Oddly enough, it seems that it is our need to protect him that hurts him most of all."

"I suppose it is difficult to be a man among people when the rest of the world wishes you to be a god. I do understand, in a way. There was a man but four hundred years ago who walked this earth. He was considered wise and blessed amongst our people. Those of great power were so afraid of his wisdom that they crucified him," he told the young falconer.

"So your people are proven cowards long before we were damned to live amongst them. Do not assume we would stand fast and watch this ever happen again."

"I suggest if you plan to live among the Romans, you be more watchful of your words."

"If I thought it would see us freed, then I would speak on the winds of Roman foolishness. But alas, it is their own folly that speaks volumes, and I am still here."

Arthur held back the smirk of understanding that threatened to spill across his face. "What is your name, knight?"

"I am called Tristan."

"Then know this, Tristan. I will do my best to see you, him and all my men back to your homelands. In the name of our merciful Father, this I do swear."

"You have your god, we have ours. You believe in a human dressed in

gold and linen. We believe in earth and all that she gives us. We are different in many ways. We will follow your rules as requested by Rome, but do not expect us to bow to your god."

"I will not ask you to change your beliefs to mine, as I have no intent to bow to yours. But I do request that in my presence, your words be spoken in my language, so that I might understand what to expect."

Tristan nodded, than took his place next to his comrade. Arthur stepped from the tent and made his way through the encampment. He stopped as he came up to the training grounds that had been cleared of bodies and debris all that remained were the post and broken chains that had been the center of the insanity. Arthur fell to his knees and began to pray.

"Heavenly Father, Please give me the strength to do what is asked of me, by you as well as Rome. Tell me what I must do to know that I might one day see these boys, nay, men might one day be free. In your name I pray."

As he rose from his knees he noticed that the bird that had once lighted on the arm of the Sarmatian had come to rest on the post in the middle of the fields. In his heart he believed that it was a sign from God that he was right to want to see these men free.


End file.
